


Every Great Dream Begins With A Dreamer (TGS FanFicFeb Challenge)

by SilverLynxx



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: Additional Tags to Be Added, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Additional Warnings to Be Added, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguity, Amnesia, Angst, Animal Death, Character Study, Childhood Trauma, Creative License, Developing Relationship, Drabble Collection, Dubious Tense, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Engagement, Established Relationship, Excessive Drinking, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Insecurity, M/M, Medical Conditions, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Not Beta Read, Past Drug Addiction, Past Drug Use, Pre-Relationship, References to Depression, Romantic Friendship, Self-Discovery, Self-Reflection, Sickfic, TGSFanFicFeb2019, writing challenge
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2019-10-21 01:11:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17633231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverLynxx/pseuds/SilverLynxx
Summary: A collection of (hopefully) 28 prompts written for TGS FanFicFeb. All chapters will be individually tagged and rated. The first chapter will be a contents page with the prompt, summary, rating, and pairing of each chapter.----Title quote by Harriet Tubman





	1. Contents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contents page detailing the prompt, summary, rating, and pairing for each chapter.

**1.     First Meeting -** Gen | No Pairing | No Warnings Apply **  
** Phillip ruminates on his first meeting with the inscrutable PT Barnum. The drink renders his memories obscure and shapeless from a certain point, but there are minutiae he remembers with perplexing clarity.

 **2.     Vertigo -** Gen | Barlyle | No Warnings Apply **  
** After being hit by a bout of bad vertigo that leaves him in Phillip's care, PT expounds on the concept of 'good vertigo' when faced with his partner's skepticism.

 **3.     Missing Memories -** Gen | Carlwheeler | No Warnings Apply  
In the aftermath of the fire, Phillip lost more than most. Clinging on to his only comfort, his only window to the world he belonged to, Phillip prays that no one will discover what the fire stole away.

 **4.     Tracks -** Teen | No Pairing | Sensitive Content [see chapter notes for details] **  
** Barnum discovered the marks only a tender few weeks into their budding partnership.

 **5.     Fluff -** Gen | Pre-Barlyle | No Warnings Apply **  
** “Sorry, I got distracted,” Phineas replies, not sorry at all as he gives the bear a little wiggle.

 **6.     "Are You Sure?" -** Gen | Barlyle | No Warnings Apply **  
** For all his confidence, even Phineas Taylor Barnum was bound to waver in a position of such emotional vulnerability.

**7.     Crossover/AU (writer's choice)**

  
**8.     Ice** \- Gen | No Pairing | Minor Character Death  
It would remain one of the universe's greatest mysteries to Phineas; how a man so severe, afflicting all those around him with the sharp burrowing shards of his detestable nature, could raise a man like Phillip.

**9.     “Take me home”**

  
**10.   Facing Your Fear** \- Teen | Barlyle | Animal Death - **[NEWEST CHAPTER]**  
Slowly, one after another, everyone’s attention turns away from the body until all eyes are fixed on the ringmaster, stood in the centre ring and seized by an unnatural stillness.

 **11.   "Left or right?"**  
**12.   Signs of affection**  
**13.   Ashes**  
**14.   Soulmate (writer's choice)**  
**15.   Cruelty**  
**16.   Harmony**  
**17.   Outcast**  
**18.   Child(ren)**  
**19.   Ambition**  
**20.   Only one bed**  
**21.   Solitude**  
**22.   Retail**  
**23.   Drink**  
**24.   Whump**  
**25.   Last Meeting**  
**26.   Sanctuary**  
**27.   Hunger**  
**28.   Constellations**


	2. First Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phillip ruminates on his first meeting with the inscrutable PT Barnum. The drink renders his memories obscure and shapeless from a certain point, but there are minutiae he remembers with perplexing clarity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No surprise, I'm already several days behind!
> 
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Pairing(s):** n/a  
>  **Warnings:** n/a

**...Breathe in...**

....breathe out....

……breathe in……

……and out……

………in………

 

Long deep breaths try to coax slumber, but still it doesn’t come. Something inside him won’t settle; an undefined sensation, a dull, curious thrumming. His eyes crack open in defeat and with effort he lifts his head.

Shrouded in silence and tenebrous shadows, Phillip can make out little in the darkness. A meagre sliver of moonlight catches the edges of familiar furnishings and stretches across the floor, but provides little more to his bleary scrutiny. 

Despite the weariness imbedded deep in his bones, fusing with the satisfying ache in his muscles from a bombastic dance number, and, he thinks, with no inconsiderable effort to clear the haze from his memory, an untoward tumble, his mind churns. It’s akin to the laborious but dogged grinding of gears, and much to his woe, the drink greasing his stomach does little to aid the process.

He conjures a few vulgar words to offer the man responsible for his impaired state should he ever see him again, and through his stupor Phillip realises that he will. Later today, in fact.

Phillip draws in a long breath and closes his eyes.

Their meeting and the cavorting that followed equates to little more than an unravelled tapestry of consciousness, its loose threads soaking in tumblers of rum. Yet the face of PT Barnum remains stark at the forefront of his mind, as does the sound of his own voice, uttering with confidence, “Sir, it looks like you have yourself a junior partner”.

The shred of recollection doesn’t dismay him like he expects; no ill-feeling seeps into his chest. Instead Phillip’s mind turns easier, lethargy slipping away as he ruminates on the night and attempts to weave together what details he can extract from his obfuscous memories.

It’s clear enough in the beginning, standing outside the theatre with the spirituous burn from his flask warming him against the brisk evening. And Barnum. He recalls the man’s confident approach and towering stature - and the thought that there was an edge of guile to his disarming smile. But he had spoken to Phillip with the brassiness of an old acquaintances and offered to buy him a drink.

When he rises in a few hours, more lucid and somewhat sober, Phillip vows to blame indulgence rather than his own deep-rooted curiosity for accepting Barnum’s fateful offer.

It gets fuzzy around the bar; a suspiciously attentive bartender and a generous flow of alcohol supplementing Barnum’s enthused pitch. More details slip away with each shot.

Curiously, however, where potentially regrettable actions fade into obscurity, minutiae he would consider infinitesimal in nature come rushing forward with unheralded clarity. Touches, feelings, sensations.

When the tavern becomes a blotted backdrop, and he contemplates the possibility he’d mounted the bar due to the lofty vantage point he seemed to briefly hold over Barnum, even the ringmaster’s impassioned spiel loses meaning. In place of his words, Phillip instead recollects the low dulcet timbre of Barnum’s voice. His inveigling, and the provocative hooks which copped a response from Phillip every time. 

At some point between his first shot and his fifth, mixed in with the sounds of scraping chair legs and bottles sliding across the countertop, something long dormant sparks to life in his chest. It overtakes him with the alacrity of a fire, and everything else is overwhelmed by the effervescent rush of _excitement._

They barter numbers he’s long forgotten, and his heartbeat feels irregular as they size each other up in a beat of silence. Something more delicate flutters in his throat. He’s sure he doesn’t waver under Barnum’s stare, and when he drops his money on the counter, Phillip names that delicate feeling _hope._

Phillip’s eyebrows pinch together when he remembers that little detail. He’d paid. Admittedly, he’d wanted to make a point, but now Phillip knows he’s as much an idiot as Barnum is a conman.

He also recalls, rather strangely, the brush of Barnum’s fingers against his own as a shot glass is pressed into his palm. “What I have is an overcompensated apprentice,” Barnum says, and accompanies it with a salute that’s as mischievous as it is triumphant. Phillip finds it more charming than incensing.

There are more shots, he thinks, because it’s the only way to explain the sudden plunge into lights and colour and noise. The endless glint of glitter and sequins. A profusion of colour that lights up a dreary existence. Exceptional men and women, short and stout and towering, brushing past in glamorous costumes, their chatter and laughter lost to the crescendo of music. He remembers it stealing his breath and paralyzing him all at once, head spinning like he’d tumbled head over heels. Maybe he did. But then there’s a hand, large and firm against the small of his back, guiding him forward, urging him onward.

His chest swells with elation as they rise; whether figuratively or literally he can’t be sure. The only certainty is the swathe of red curtain ahead and the unimaginable sights beyond it, and he’s overcome by an unfathomable emotion. It rips through him like a voltaic surge of excitement, alighting every nerve from his fingertips to his toes, and it arrests him, swathes his heart in a delicate but impenetrable palisade of hope. For the first time in his life he wonders if this is the feeling of freedom. It’s an experience so intense he can do nothing but release it all in an exhilarated, liberating laugh.

The laughter is not just a memory. Though quieter, more disbelieving, it rings through the room all the same, and Phillip feels equally giddy and adrift. The freedom thrums beneath his skin - real, lasting, and full of promise. It’s what keeps sleep at bay as Phillip finally rolls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling in wonder. It conjures countless possibilities. And, in place of sleep, it gives life to a million dreams Phillip had never known before.


	3. Vertigo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After being hit by a bout of bad vertigo that leaves him in Phillip's care, PT expounds on the concept of 'good vertigo' when faced with his partner's skepticism.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm taking some creative liberties here as I'm pretty sure vertigo wasn't officially diagnosed until early to mid 20th century.
> 
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Pairing(s):** barlyle  
>  **Warnings:** n/a

It was days like today that Phineas truly understood why his business had coined the phrase ‘like a three-ringed circus’.

When he’d settled behind his desk earlier that morning, he’d had every intention of tackling the paperwork Phillip had been henpecking him about for days. Instead, he’d faced a carousel of troubled performers coming through his office with dilemmas to address. By nine his coffee was cold and mournfully untouched. By ten he’d given up on the paperwork completely. By noon, Phineas was ready to call it a day.

From props going missing and costumes splitting seams, he’d lost count of how many times someone had called him away to another part of the circus. When Fedor nearly crushes himself with the strong-man’s weights for the sake of a dare and Constantine’s cape catches fire when he steps too close to the rehearsing fire-breathers, he chalks it up to one of those days.

The fire set the tone for the rest of the afternoon, even after it was quickly stamped out and Constantine assured everyone he was unhurt. Restless memories of their last brush with an unchecked blaze settled over the circus, and Phineas felt the unmistakable tension in his shoulders when he went to change for the full rehearsal. He was grateful Phillip hadn’t been there to witness it.

Now standing back in the ring, he is soundly in the throes of chaos that make up the stage-checks and pre-rehearsal warm-ups. While the jugglers, acrobats, and dancers take up all the available space on the fringes of the rings, Phineas barks instructions to the stagehands from his spot in the centre of it all. As a team carry the stacked steel hoops backstage, he casts his attention to the rafters, shielding his eyes from the blinding glare of the lights.

He squints and follows what he suspects is a slack line of rope hanging from the rafters. “Cob!” he hollers towards the gangway overhead, barely drawing any attention from the troupe absorbed in their own preparations.

“Cob, there’s a slack rope!” he yells, louder this time to be heard over the din. Despite his unclear view through his fingers, there’s no sign of movement above, and he doesn’t hear the stagehand’s thick Irish brogue acknowledging he’d heard the ringmaster at all.

Tongue clicking in irritation, Phineas makes his way towards the central mast and the ladder up to the walkway. It’s with resignation Phineas concedes this will just have to be another of the many inconveniences he’s already had to deal with today. With that in mind, he starts to climb.

Hauling himself up onto the wooden platform, he pauses a moment to glance at the circus below and can’t suppress his burgeoning grin. It feels like he’s peering down into a different world; one of his own making. Up among the ropes and rigging, it’s quieter and darker, but down there, all he sees is illumination - the lights, the spectacle, the fluid grace and wonder of all the oddities caught up in their acts.

Drumming his fingers briefly on the handrail Phineas turns back to the task at hand. He can’t see the burly stagehand anywhere on this level, which would explain the lack of response, so Phineas strides along the walkway until he locates the suspect rope he’d spotted from the ring.

“There you are,” he mutters after a quick scour of the rigging. It takes only a moment to realise the rope has come loose from its pulley, which sits just out of comfortable reach.

Weighing his options, Phineas exhales heavily through his nose and places a cautious knee onto the handrail. Slowly, gingerly, he raises himself off the floor and reaches over the side of the gangway. His fingertips come into contact with the pulley, a tenuous handhold at best, and he tries to rethread the rope.

He’s wary of his precarious footing. Conscious that leaning only a fraction too far will pitch him down to the circus below. Despite his past and rather spectacular fall from grace months before, Phineas doubts even he could brush himself off after such a drop. It’s a struggle to ignore the flutter of apprehension in the pit of his stomach. A reminder of his mortality and its impermanence as he wavers against the pull of gravity.

As anomalous as the sentiment is, for the second time that day Phineas is glad Phillip isn’t around to see. Lettie or any of the others would give him an equally thorough a rollicking for his recklessness he’s sure, but Phillip is fond of the silent treatment when he’s particularly upset, and Phineas isn’t sure he could take that on top of the day he’s already had.

The rope’s almost threaded, and Phineas stretches just a little further. He cranes his neck, turns his head a fraction, and reels. The disorientation hits him suddenly, like a kick to the side of the head, and he feels his fingers lose purchase on the pulley.

He isn’t sure if he cries out, but through the ear-splitting ringing in his skull Phineas thinks he hears Phillip’s strangled shout of his name from below. Heart in his throat, he has the presence of mind to pitch himself backwards and he staggers onto the safety of the walkway. Regardless of the solid ground underfoot, his world continues to spin with a sickening asperity, darkening at the edges and making his empty stomach heave with nausea.

The pain doesn’t register when his knees hit the floor, his swaying becoming too violent to remain standing. Leaning forward, braced on his forearms, Phineas squeezes his eyes shut and drags in ragged breaths, trying to quell the urge to retch. Shooting pains make his head feel like the target of Deng Yan’s knives and, God, it’s a cruel agony.

It feels like he huddles there for hours, skin clammy and body yawing to and fro like the bow of a ship on a tumultuous sea. But he couldn’t have been there for more than a few minutes before the gangway is trembling with rapid footfall and arms wrap around him.

Phillip’s voice is in his ear, and he doesn’t stop talking as he hoists Phineas to his feet with the aid of someone else. Although he can’t focus on what’s being said, with the ringing subsiding Phineas can at least latch on to the consoling tones. His heart twinges at the barely veiled terror beneath them.

The identity of his second rescuer becomes apparent when they maneuver him along the walkway and WD asks, “We need to get you down this ladder, Mr B, how do you feel?”

Awful, is his immediate thought. While the piercing knell in his head has faded, it’s left his skull ringing with tintinnabulation. Cracking open his eyes affirms the room is still lurching, and Phillip and WD brace him as he teeters. However, his pained glimpse reveals a second ladder has been propped up against the gangway, providing a safer, less steep descent.

It’s an awkward and terrifying ordeal getting down the ladder. WD goes first with Phillip last, both men supporting Phineas between them as they edge slowly back to the ground. Throughout the long minutes, Phineas silently prays he won’t be the cause of these men falling to grievous injury. Or worse.

They’re greeted at the bottom by an outbreak of relieved clamor; oaths uttered in rasping voices while a few of the younger women weep, spooked by the sight of their ringmaster nearly plunging to a certain death. He’s whisked away to what he believes to be their office, if the couch he’s deposited on is anything to go by, and left alone when the door closes behind Phillip and WD after a hushed exchange.

The abrupt silence after the cacophony of the main tent is deafening. Almost as disorientating as the funny spell that had stricken him. He winces as he makes to sit up, groaning with the effort, exhaustion threatening to overtake him.

“Phin?”

Eyes snapping open, Phineas jerks in surprise. He slumps back across the couch with a flinch, but doesn’t close his eyes again; the room isn’t spinning so cruelly anymore, and the curtains have been closed to keep out the worst of the light. At the door stands Phillip, looking white as a sheet. 

Holding each other’s gaze, Phillip finally turns away and goes for the drinks trolley in the corner. He disappears from Phineas’ line of sight behind the arm of the couch. Stomach still tossing, Phineas feels even more wretched.

Phillip must be furious with him.

Eyelids slipping closed, he prepares to submerge himself in his misery, but the sofa cushion dipping with Phillip’s weight cuts the endeavour short. A gentle hand smooths back the wet hair sticking to his forehead, and a damp cloth is placed across Phineas’ brow. He peers up into blue eyes brimming with relief.

“I’m sorry.” His voice is low and scratchy and the apology doesn’t feel in any way adequate.

Phillip’s palm cups his cheek and he leans into it with a deep exhale. His body suddenly feels like a lead weight, an impossible effort to raise his head unsupported.

“Have you eaten?” Phillip says at last, taking Phineas off guard with the question. He takes a moment to recall that morning which seemed so long ago.

“No.” He’s unsure whether to add that it’s unlikely he’ll keep anything down before the nausea abates, so he keeps quiet.

Phillip makes an acknowledging noise in his throat. “I’ve got water here, if you need it.”

It’s then Phineas notices the glass of water on the coffee table, sitting next to an unmentioned plate of pastries. Not a tipple or a whiff of alcohol to be found. Affection warms his skin and seeps into his chest, filling the space around his heart and lungs with a different kind of pressure. It leaves him no less breathless.

“I’m going to make tea.” Despite broadcasting his intention, Phillip doesn’t move immediately. He seems calmer, more sure, and that soothes Phineas in turn. Phillip’s yet to remove his hand from Phineas’ cheek. “What happened?”

Phineas takes a moment. The room is becoming clearer by the minute, his disorientation subsiding in favour of a bone-deep tiredness.

“Nothing to be concerned about. Just a bit of vertigo,” he assures Phillip with an easy smile. “The bad kind,” he clarifies, satisfied when Phillip snorts.

Phillip was ok.

 _They_ were ok. 

“You say that as if there’s a good kind.” Phillip’s tone is light with amusement. He adjusts the cloth on Phineas’ brow and rises, and Phineas tracks him for as long as he can until Phillip once against disappears from his line of sight. The kettle is placed on the little stove they’d installed and teacups clink against the tray that makes up their tea station.

Phineas breathes deep. The bubble of the kettle, the _tink_ of the teaspoon against the cups, the rustle of Phillip's clothing, the creak of the floorboards when he shifts his weight from one foot to the other or takes a step; it all blends together, imbuing the room with a tranquil ambience.

“There’s a good vertigo,” Phineas answers quietly. Phillip pauses and Phineas can perfectly picture the bemused look he gives the couch. He hadn’t been expecting an answer at all, it seemed.

“Your head feels light, so light it’s impossible to focus. And the dizziness. The room doesn’t spin, but goes soft, and sways. And your stomach…” Phineas huffs out a laugh, letting his eyes close as he lifts his arm to rest comfortably behind his head. “It ties itself in knots and feels like it will drop away at any moment. You feel hot and your hands tremble and you don’t know why. Sometimes you forget how to hear anything, just the sound of your heart racing in your ears...”

He lets his words taper into silence. Only opening his eyes when the sofa again dips beneath Phillip. The room is perfectly steady, and his newly settled stomach flutters when he sees Phillip above him, nursing a cup of tea with Phineas’ own cooling on the table.  

A familiar crease forms between Phillip’s prominent brows, his lips pressed in a short, neutral line. “That doesn’t sound very good at all.”

“It may not sound like it, but it is. I get it a lot.”

Phillip’s expression edges into one of concern. He was a worrier, sweet and compassionate. Phineas was always drawn to what he lacked, it said so much about Phillip.

“You do? When?”

Phineas smiles, soft and sincere. “Whenever I look at you.”

He can read each emotion as it processes. Phillip has a beautifully expressive face at times. So surprising for a man who grew up with such a guarded heart.

Bewilderment is the first, wrong-footed by Phineas’ answer. Incomprehension follows, just briefly in the way his eyebrows pinch. Phineas’ smile stretches when Phillip ducks his head to mask the pinkness of his cheeks, forgetting the tips of his ears blush as well. Understanding, shyness, appreciation. Adoration.

Phineas returns the last tenfold as Phillip sets down his cup and leans in. He frames Phillip’s face in his callused hands, dark and scarred against the unmarred marble of Phillip’s cheeks, and leads him into a kiss. Phillip’s lips are warm and sweet from the tea. Eager for his reciprocation but tender and considerate of his condition. The cloth slips from Phineas’ brow somewhere between innumerable kisses, and Phillip’s fingers card through his hair of curling rats’ tails, saturated as it is with sweat.   

Their foreheads come together with a gentle pressure, warm breaths mingling between them. Phillip folded over Phineas like a physical defense. Phineas cradling Phillip’s face like a cherished possession.

“I’m still upset with you,” Phillip mutters.

Phineas sighs. “I know.”

He doesn’t try to play off Phillip’s concern. Doesn’t drop his eyes with an impish smile and act like it was all just a trivial error of judgement. He holds Phillip’s stare, heavy as it is with so many emotional facets, like staring into brilliant cut sapphire, and tries to wordlessly convey his regret.

“But you’ve had a hard day, so we’ll talk about it later.”

“I love you,” Phineas murmurs, letting his hands fall away as Phillip sits up again.

“Eat something,” Phillip counters, rubbing a hand over Phineas’ thigh and patting his knee. He replaces the cloth to Phineas’ brow and stands up. “And you better still be on this couch when I get back,” he warns.

Phineas makes a show of stretching out like a satisfied cat and doesn’t miss the amused twitch to Phillip’s authoritative frown before he closes his eyes.

There’s several beats where Phillip doesn’t move, so it’s only when Phineas is on the cusp of sleep he hears Phillip finally make to leave the office. He’s already snoring quietly by the time Phillip closes the door.


	4. Missing Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of the fire, Phillip lost more than most. Clinging on to his only comfort, his only window to the world he belonged to, Phillip prays that no one will discover what the fire stole away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Pairing(s):** Carlwheeler  
>  **Warnings:** n/a

His consciousness returned in pieces.

With time, the susurrations of indistinct sounds became the click of heels and the clatter of trolley wheels on tiled floors. But the murmurs of conversation held no meaning as they washed over him. Then it was sensations. He was no longer a disembodied entity. He could feel the constraints of his body, the wounds across his skin which ached and burned without relief, the feather-light sheet across his body.

A hand. It was small and delicate, but strong. He could feel it in the fingers that laced with his own.

When at last he opened his eyes, he was greeted by an angel in an unwashed shawl. Wild curls pinned up in a bun and stray locks framing a soft face with divine features and a radiant sun-touched complexion. Her eyes were large and dark and filled with tears. Then she smiled, her whole body shuddering with relief, and she kissed him.

Phillip drew a sharp against her lips. Couldn’t stop the way he tensed beneath her touch. She looked at him from beneath her lashes, worried, no, terrified of rejection.

It took only a moment.

He cupped the back of her head, fingers delving into soft velvet hair, and returned her kiss before she could draw away.

He wished he knew her name.

**-**

Anne.

Anne tells him everything. About the fight. The fire. The circus and all the peculiar people within it. They were all ok. Phillip was glad, he just wished he could remember them.

When he was slow to answer, or couldn’t answer at all, or didn’t mask his confusion quick enough, Anne would squeeze his hand reassuringly - she rarely let it go - and elaborate on details Phillip should have rightly known.

“Trauma from the fire,” she told him softly one day, reasoning his confusion for him as she swept her thumbs over the backs of his hands. She was tender and strong and beautiful, and Phillip wondered if they were once deeply and passionately in love. It seemed impossible, almost wrong; he wondered what had become of his parents.

He doesn’t ask because he could easily see himself falling in love with Anne all over again.

Anne didn’t know the depths of truth that lay beneath the surface of his trauma, and he prayed she’d never find out.

**-**

He’d given up the one world he remembered. He’d forgotten the one world he had left.

He remembered the aching loneliness that had once festered in his heart, the loneliness that Anne kept at bay with her tales of their unconventional family of outcasts and oddities. Their flawed and brilliant ringmaster who had returned to them with hope riding on the tails of his scarlet coat. They’d rejoiced that he hadn’t forgotten them.

A quiet part of him, the satiric little voice and frequent drinking companion in the back of his mind, laughed at the irony.

**-**

He’s discharged from the hospital and he leaves with Anne at his side.

Despite the leanings of his father, Phillip had never been a particularly religious man. Yet again and again he found himself praying.

He was walking into a circus with an act he didn’t know he could pull off.

He prayed he had the strength to carry the lie.

Prayed he could school his expressions to be less telling.

Prayed his answers would come quicker and smarter, able to misdirect from the gaping holes in his recollection Anne couldn’t fill.

He prayed his memories were only missing.

He feared the reality that they were lost.


	5. Tracks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barnum discovered the marks only a tender few weeks into their budding partnership. 
> 
> **Rating:** Teen (For sensitive content)  
>  **Pairing(s):** n/a  
>  **Warnings:** Mentions of past drug use (non-explicit), drug abuse and dependency, and severe depression

Changing in the office, in front of the furnace which cast an ambient light across the room, Phillip was reaching for his shirt when Barnum burst through the door in a windstorm of irrepressible brio.

It was his flagrant and frankly wanton nature that had hooked Phillip from the start. He was as vibrant and full of promise as the lure he’d used to entice Phillip into associating with his contentious venture, and it was that very vibrancy draining from him that told Phillip he hadn’t recoiled fast enough.

Barnum’s eyes were sharp for a man of his age.

With light spilling across his back from the open doorway, the fire played amongst the shadows and lines on Barnum’s face. There was a weight to his brow that hadn’t been there before.

In a blink he came back to himself and closed the door without a word, isolating them from the light and noise of the circus in a room that felt dark and stifling by comparison. His prior zest was absent as he crossed the distance between them. It was unsettling to see Barnum so pensive, and the cautious nature of his approach, like Phillip was some kind of loosed beast, made his mouth taste bilious.

Fastening the last button on his shirt by touch, he stared resolutely at the floor as Barnum stopped in front of him. He could feel the elder man’s stare penetrating the thickly charged silence, lancing his skin, pricking and compressing him all at once until he felt awash with cold sweat. He didn’t know if Barnum was waiting for Phillip to face him - like a man with any degree of dignity would, he could hear in his father’s contemptuous sneer - or if he simply didn’t know what to say.

It wasn’t his place to say anything, Phillip thought viciously.

The laden silence mounted, and so too did the animus blistering beneath his skin.

“May I see?” Barnum asked at last, barely above a whisper.

Barnum’s forthrightness no longer shocked him and never had it offended him. It was a presumptuous manner that toed the line between daring and audacity, and Barnum had perfected it. It was evident in the way Phillip folded like a fractured dam and all the fight drained out of him in a torrent, crumbling his worn edges and leaving him tired and hollow.

Even though Barnum demanded nothing of him, he surrendered to the inevitable. Rolling up his sleeve, he offered his arm and Barnum took him delicately by the wrist, his other hand settling at Phillip’s elbow. He turned his arm towards the light, stretched the skin with a gentle pressure, and ran his thumb over the track marks impressed into the tender flesh of his inner elbow.

Phillip wanted to be resolute and contemptuous when he held Barnum’s stare, but he couldn’t even will his eyes from the floor. He supposed it was a small mercy. Someone had once told him his heart bled from his eyes, and that would give Barnum too much. More than he already had or wanted to have wrested from him. So he crafted his final defense with the skill afforded by years of practice; an indifferent mask to cloak the emotional maelstrom battering against his ribs.

“Do you still…?”

Barnum’s voice was thick as he spoke. But it wasn’t harsh. Not even gruff.

It was a tone Phillip couldn’t place, and it willed the tension to swell and recede all at once.

“No. Not for years.”

Monotonous and certain, he gave Barnum the reassurance he wanted, but it belied the dread that plagued him. The fear that the addiction would return to pace his mind and sunder his will until he was once again doped and soporose on the floors of New York’s opium dens.

If this new promised life of liberation spiralled to a point as bleak and meaningless as his last, Phillip didn’t believe he had the strength or heart to crawl back from that brink of despair.

“Sometimes I wonder about the life you really left behind...” Barnum murmured.

His curious statement intrigued Phillip enough that he finally looked up, brow furrowing in question. He sucked in a breath when he found Barnum’s eyes welling up with emotion, emotions the elder made no attempt to hide from him, and Phillip willed the sudden burning obstruction in his throat away.

“What could have pushed an accomplished and brilliant young man to such a destructive vice...”

What could Phillip conceivably  say to make Barnum understand?

How could he articulate a listlessness so potent that it made his limbs feel like lead and every venture from his bed an effort? How his mind churned and chewed on itself in endless hours of idleness in search of a purpose. A reason to even exist while a great weight of hopeless inadequacy caved in his chest. How could he possibly explain to Barnum of all people a world so black and barren, so devoid of colour and direction, he had to pump his body full of narcotics just to feel like he was alive at all.

Phillip didn’t realise how affected he was by the murky abyss of his reminiscence until his next breath came out strained. His throat felt like it was closing up completely. The shame burning in his eyes made his sight blur into fragments of light and shadows.

A long-buried emotion stirred in his chest, one he’d thought long dead. It was a special and particularly agonising stab of shame he hadn’t felt since he’d last disappointed his father; back when he had still foolishly thought he could make him proud.

The discovery of his profligate drug dependency had put an end to that idealistic dream.

He felt like he’d disappointed his father all over again.

A hand landing on his shoulder startled him, and before Phillip could think to shake it off or re-erect his fractured walls, Barnum had pulled him tight to his chest. He was fixed in place with an arm around him, Barnum’s open palm pressed between his shoulder blades His other hand cupped the back of Phillip’s head and tucked his nose into the collar of Barnum’s shirt, a perfectly parental manoeuvre.

It stung that it felt so strange to him.

It was an assault on his senses - Barnum’s sheltered embrace, his scent of sweat and sawdust, his low-pitched murmurs - and it all conspired to immobilize him. He stood petrified, his breath uneven against Barnum’s neck and the storm within his chest roaring so loud he was afraid Barnum might hear. Yet...the temptation to close his eyes and surrender to the warmth and security being offered was shattering.

“You never have to worry about that way of life ever again, Phillip. I promise,” Barnum assured him, voice rough, but in a strangely tender way.

How he could speak so certainly about something out of his control perplexed Phillip, but he wasn’t in any mind to challenge his well-intended comfort. 

He wanted to cry.

The tears gathered to an overwhelming degree and Phillip was sure they would spill. But closing his eyes tight he fought to suppress them, just as he had every time before. To stand in such an embrace with his employer was one thing, but Phillip couldn’t stomach the shame of breaking to the point of sobbing into the man’s shoulder like a child.

He saved what little face he could by allowing Barnum to act upon him without reciprocation, keeping his arms by his side despite the insistent tug in his heart that urged him to wrap them around Barnum and cling on for dear life. But he let himself be protected. Let the comfort and solidarity envelop him and gently sand away his jagged edges.

Barnum may not have been a great man, not in all the ways he could be, but he was a good man.

Phillip couldn’t allow himself to hold on to Barnum, so instead, secretly, he latched onto his words, his promises, and hoped that they were vivid, and honest and real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one _was_ looked over by the lovely and patient [Schizanthus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/schizanthus) and [The_Girl_Who_Got_Tired_of_Waiting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Girl_Who_Got_Tired_of_Waiting). Thank you! <3


	6. Fluff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sorry, I got distracted,” Phineas replies, not sorry at all as he gives the bear a little wiggle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to catch up I said. I have to write shorter fics I said. Who listens to me anyway, I certainly don't.  
> I don't know how this became 4.5k, it doesn't quite seem worth it for what actually takes place, but here we are!
> 
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Pairing:** Pre-Barlyle  
>  **Warnings:** n/a

They bustle into Phillip’s apartment bumping shoulders and scuffling feet in an effort to get out of the rain lashing the pavement outside. Droplets drip from the hems of their coats and brims of their hats to gather in puddles at their feet, and Phineas laughs as Phillip huffs out a tart comment about the fickle weather.

“A prepared man is a dry man,” Phineas quips with a grin, hanging his coat on the tall free-standing coat rack a step from the door. Phillip appears at his side with a not so gentle jab of his elbow that Phineas is positive isn’t accidental, and hangs up his own coat while Phineas deposits his hat on the side table. His sour look only serves to further entertain Phineas as they carry on into the younger man’s home.

“You don’t appear to be any drier than I am,” he points out. “And the sky was perfectly clear this morning, there was no indication there’d be a _downpour.”_ The degree of displeasure pushed into that one word has Phineas’ eyes crinkling at the corners.

“I never said I was prepared. I’m more the spontaneous type, that’s why I have you.” He clapped Phillip’s shoulder and his partner bit back a smirk.

“Which is going swimmingly.”

Phineas pauses, lets the very deliberate wording sink in, and barks out a laugh, bumping Phillip playfully away as the playwright chuckles at his own bon mot.

“How ever will I cope without your witty repartee these next few days,” Barnum laments to the tune of Phillip’s eye-roll as they enter the study.

“I’m sure you’ll manage.” Phillip’s tone is undeniably fond as he picks up the travel case next to his desk and deposits it on top, unclasping the latches to inspect the contents.

“Are you all packed?”

“Just a few odds and ends left.” Phillip replies, opening and rummaging through several desk drawers in search of something. The brief response marks Phillip’s preoccupation, so Phineas takes to meandering the bookshelves lining one wall. It’s a collection worthy of a playwright and a man as well-read as Phillip, though he didn’t doubt some titles were purely for the sake of owning; even a reader as avid as Phillip couldn’t consume so many books and still be properly socialised.

“PT.” Phineas stops, realising the palliative background noise of Phillip rustling through papers had ceased without his notice. He turns to face his partner who, after a momentary pause to get the ringmaster’s attention, resumes his search through the desk.

“There’s a book on my bedside table I’d like to take, could you retrieve it for me? I seem to have misplaced my spare key…”

Content with a task to occupy himself, Phineas hums and leaves Phillip to the ransacking of his desk. He’d never entered Phillip’s bedroom before, but as it was a modest-sized apartment compared to his family home it was easy to locate the one door Phineas had only ever seen in passing on his numerous visits.

He enters the room for the first time with care, as one often did in a new and unfamiliar, but immanently personal space. Sunlight floods the room from the large sash windows,  and curiosity leads his eye over the neutral-coloured walls and large ornate furnishings. It’s with great mirth he finds the bed tactfully placed out of direct sunlight, no doubt a decision comprised of many mornings waking up on the foul side of a hangover and the glare of the sun.

The book sits on the bedside table where Phillip had indicated. While Phineas had come with every intention of collecting the book and returning to the study, his attention is instead taken by a peculiar sight out the corner of his eye. Small and ornate and purely decorative from what Phineas can tell, there’s nothing unusual about the stool sitting next to the wardrobe. He would wager it was one of Mrs Carlyle’s few personal touches Phillip had once mentioned were scattered throughout his apartment. What really draws his eye is the small stuffed bear sat on top.

Diverting from his path to the book he instead reaches for the bear for closer inspection. Threadbare would be a kind description, tatty is what immediately comes to mind as its one remaining button eye stares forlornly up at Phineas. Stuffing pokes out the split seams of floppy limbs on the brink of complete collapse, and it’s fur - perhaps a once lovely honey brown - is now dark with years of accumulated dust and grime. He runs his thumb over the patches of missing fur and turns the bear over to find an unexpected burn mark across the bear’s back, the fur completely stripped and the remaining fabric blackened and stiff. He turns it back round to regard its pointed face and glossy black nose. With its slightly misshapen charm it certainly wasn't a manufactured creation, but a piece of personal homegrown handiwork. Yet personal or not it wasn't something he could imagine the Carlyle's gifting to their son. Had he acquired it more recently?

“I found the key. What are you doing in he-” Phillip cuts off abruptly and Phineas has to fight the urge to hide the bear behind his back like a child with a fistful of misbegotten treats. Granted, he hadn't been sent to fondle Phillip's possessions, but he wasn't doing anything _wrong_.

“Sorry, I got distracted,” Phineas replies, not sorry at all as he gives the bear a little wiggle. The twinge of embarrassment that crosses fleetingly over Phillip's face like a plucked violin string is expected, but the tension twitching in his fingers, as if he was restraining himself from snatching the bear from Phineas’ hand, is not, and it sparks a vociferous interest in the bear.

“Ah, I must have forgotten to put that away.”

 _Hide it_ , Phineas’ mind supplies, and he hums. “I didn’t expect you to have a keepsake so…”

“Ugly?”

“-love-worn.” he finishes evenly, despite the barbed interjection. Phillip has the grace to look abashed, but the tension only starts to dissipate after he gives Phineas a long hard look, likely gauging his sincerity. At last, Phillip’s shoulders drop and Phineas feels confident pursuing the issue. “At least, I assume it’s a keepsake?” 

“It holds sentimental value,” Phillip confirms. Phineas waits, eyebrows twitching upwards expectantly until Phillip exhales loudly through his nose. “It was a gift. From my nanny when I was a child.” He must pretend not to see the surprise Phineas tries and fails to keep from his face. “I don’t remember a lot about her. She was rather well on in years, even then, and had a strong southern accent and the most impossibly dark complexion I had ever seen at that age. I was fascinated by her. She was like a grandmother, with the kindness and patience of a saint, and let me call her nanna Rose in private… I don’t recall her birth name.”

Phillip’s life before the circus was not often enquired after and even more rarely discussed. Phineas understood better than most the desire to keep the details of one's upbringing in the past, but even still, he’s engrossed by this fond glimpse into Phillip’s childhood. He holds out the bear.

“It sounds like she cared greatly for you.”

Phillip takes the stuffed animal and cradles it in his palms as he studies it, the wistful quirk to his lips and the absence in his eye telling Phineas the younger man is still reminiscing.   

“She made it herself; gave it to me the day she retired. She told me she was moving back down south to be with family, despite having never mentioned a family before and the decision being so sudden. I’m still convinced my parents dismissed her.” His smile remains, but dims with melancholy. “I never saw her again after that day. I clung onto this bear for years, despite how many attempts my parents made to dispose of it. On the last bid my father threw it into the fireplace, they didn’t expect me to dive after it.”

Phineas can’t stop the unintelligible noise he makes in his throat. “An impulse you didn’t grow out of, I see,” he says without thinking. Phillip, thankfully, emits a sudden and genuine laugh.

“No, it would appear not. Mother read father the riot act and put an end to the whole thing. They let me keep it providing it never left my room, a proviso I was willing to accept.”

Phineas takes a moment to truly appreciate the picture of Mrs Carlyle giving her husband a thorough dressing down before, more pressingly, enquiring, “Were you hurt?”

Phillip’s nose creases to one side. “Not really. A few small burns on my hand and a fright from some hot ash being kicked up.” He places the bear down on the bed, propped up against the footboard. “It was a small sacrifice. Now he’s free to live out his life in peace, for as long as his stitching holds out, at least.”

The subtle shift into personal pronouns doesn’t go amiss, and Phineas considers the bear as Phillip rounds the bed to collect the book he’d sent Phineas to retrieve in the first place. Tucking it under his arm, Phineas looks up just in time to receive the spare key Phillip offers him.

“If you’re staying late at the circus, which you inevitably will, you’re welcome to stay here if you don’t fancy the trip home.”

Phineas beams, accepting the key and placing it safely in his breast pocket. “I appreciate that, thank you.”

With a quick check of his pocket watch, Phillip’s eyebrows shoot up and he hisses out a breath. “I’m going to be late.” He turns on his heel and strides from the room to finish packinng.

“I’ll accompany you to the station,” Phineas calls after him, about to follow when he hesitates. He looks back to the bear, cherished yet looking so very weary. Before he can talk himself out of it, Phineas grabs the stuffed toy and hurries to the front door.

When Phillip joins him a few moments later, bag in hand and ushering Phineas onto the street, he thankfully doesn’t notice the unusual bulge to Phineas’ coat.

 

* * *

 

The following days at the circus are odd without Phillip. It’s no less organised chaos than usual with Phineas manning the helm, but his absence is nevertheless felt throughout the tent. Even though it heartens Phineas to see how part and parcel of the circus Phillip has become, he’s still left to speculate over the equally pronounced sense of absence in his chest, like an oyster whose pearl has been stolen away.

He’s reclining with his feet kicked up on his desk, mulling over potential ailments and staring down the stuffed bear perched against his desk lamp, when there’s a knock at the door.

“Barnum?”

Glancing up only briefly to register Lettie’s face peering through the door, he waves her in and lets his attention settle back on the bear, absently chewing the hardened skin on the side of his thumb. Lettie, out of her costume for the evening and dressed in a simple frock with a cotton shawl drawn around her shoulders, takes the seat on the opposite side of his desk. Her presence is a welcome and pleasant one, but he has to purposefully ignore the glance she shoots the empty desk next to his own.

After several moments of watching the fixed concentration on Phineas’ face, Lettie too looks at the bear, curious as to its significance which leaves the ringmaster in a state of inertia.

“It’s a gift,” Phineas says at last after a stretch of silence, and the woman, agonisingly patient in the face of another one of his bold yet inarguably ambiguous statements, raises a brow.

“No offence, hun, but it looks a little worse for wear.”

Phineas snorts. “An understatement.” He finally looks up and they share an amused, languid grin. Planting his feet on the ground, his humour slips away as he picks up the stuffed animal, thumbing a worn out ear which threatens to detach in his hand. “I’m going to repair it, as a gift,” he clarifies. Phineas is sure he speaks with nothing short of full-bodied confidence, but Lettie must posses the uncanny intuition reserved for mothers and young children as she ‘ahs’ softly and considers her next words carefully.

“Patching and repairing costumes is one thing, won’t argue you know your way with a needle and thread, but this seems like a bigger job than a few split seams.”

She strikes a chord. Repairing a stuffed bear of all things shouldn’t have been a daunting or complicated task, but Lettie’s concern echoes the same thoughts Phineas had been wrestling with for several days. On top of the fact he was doing this without Phillip’s knowledge or permission, the bear was a _treasured keepsake_ , not an easily replaceable children’s toy. Whether it went right or wrong in Phineas’ eyes was inconsequential, it all came down to Phillip.

“But you wouldn’t be wasting time on it if it wasn’t worth doing.”

Thrown by the comment, a look of perplexity overtakes his worry and Lettie laughs. “Come on, Barnum, you don’t waste a scrap of energy on any old thing that catches your attention.” She gestures over her shoulder to where a small work table sits in the corner, fabric, thread, and a random assortment of materials spread across its surface. “That’s sat there untouched since you set it up, so stop pussyfooting around and fix the bear.”

There’s an authority to her voice which blindsides Phineas, not used to being on the receiving end of orders, but it’s softened by an amused, kindly tone which is perfectly Lettie. He finds himself nodding. Without waiting for the ringmaster to locate his voice, Lettie rises from the seat, adjusting her shawl and heading for the door.

“Lettie.”

She pauses in the doorway and looks back to find Phineas standing behind his desk, stuffed bear in hand. “Thank you,” he says gratefully, and Lettie smiles through her neatly trimmed beard.

“Carlyle will be back before you know it.”

Caught off guard for the second time in as many minutes, Phineas can’t even question her irregular answer before Lettie has closed the door and disappeared into the circus. Accepting he would get no further clarity on the matter, Phineas returns his focus to his charge, turning the stuffed toy in his hands.

Frown softening, he gives the bear’s little black nose a rub for good luck and takes a seat at the worktable.

 

* * *

 

The bear takes two days to complete.

The first night he starts by almost entirely restitching the seams, pulling out old, fraying thread and closing up the holes so stuffing no longer poked through. After re-securing the ear and removing its one button eye, Phineas spends the next half an hour sitting with his stitch-picker hovering over the seam down the bear’s back.

Pushing aside the nagging doubt weighing heavily on his mind, he finally jabs the tool into the scorched fabric with a furrowed brow and rips the first stitch. It’s easier after that, the damage already done, and with each stitch removed the tension bleeds from Phineas’ shoulders. When the back is finally opened completely, he removes what’s left of the stuffing; clumped, dusty, and smelling of old socks.

Once he’d given the bear a vigorous scrub in a bucket of soap and water and a clean rinse, it’s close to midnight when he finally drapes the limp and soggy, but notably cleaner, bear-skin over the grate in front of the stove.

Slumping down onto the couch, Phineas opts to sleep in the office that night.

He doesn’t get to return to the bear until late the next day, hours after he’d hoped due to a small but persistent band of drunken agitators refusing to be removed from the grounds.

He drops into his seat at the worktable with an irritated sigh and lays the now dry bear casing across the table. Restuffing the bear is quick and simple, and by the time he’s finished and restitched the back seam the toy is once again soft and plump. His brusque handwork loses its vehemence as he immerses himself in the familiar practice, his sullen mood soon diminished by the repetitive sweep and pull of the needle.

Using a small comb to tease out the fur that has dried together, the last remnants of Phineas’ dark cloud has faded by the time the bear is fluffed to his liking, hopefully reminiscent of how Phillip had first received him all those years ago.

Lettie checks in on him when he’s stitching on the bear’s new blue button eyes.

“Well, he’s looking a damn sight better,” she compliments, hand coming to rest on Phineas’ shoulder as he draws the needle up from the final stitch. Once the thread is cut, he holds the bear up for her to see. Lettie brushes her thumb over one of the new paw pads and admires the tactful fix to hide the patches of original fur that had worn away. Phineas hums, and Lettie easily detects the discontent in the sound. “What’s bothering you?”

Phineas flips the bear over with a sigh and the problem glares up at them. For all Phineas’ skill, much of the bear’s upper back was unsalvageable, disfigured by a dark and ugly patch of clumped burnt fabric. Lettie clucks her tongue sympathetically.

“Well, don’t be at it all night. That’s the last of us heading home and O’Malley is locking up.” He hums as she pats his arm reassuringly and then draws her shawl tighter around her. As she walks away, he can hear the smile in her voice as she says, almost to herself, “If anyone can fix you up again, it’s the great Phineas Taylor Barnum.”

The door closes at the exact moment Phineas’ brain sparks with inspiration, and he laughs and stands up so sharply his chair scrapes against the floor as it’s shunted back. Crossing the office to the wardrobe in the corner, he throws open the doors to reveal his and Phillip’s ringmasters garments; jackets hanging from the rail, top hats resting on interior shelves, and the shared cane propped against the wall. Reaching into the back of the wardrobe, he pulls out a bundle of bright red fabric, and holding it at the edges he lets it fall open. It no longer had the acrid smell of smoke clinging to it, but as Phineas surveyed his first ringmaster’s coat, it was hard to ignore the physical remnants of the fire in the scorch marks and the right sleeve and breast being completely burnt away. It was ruined and so entirely impractical to hold on to, but even though Phineas had never been a material man, it had served as a poignant reminder up until this point.

Now, however, he returns to his worktable and promptly cuts the unmarked tail of the coat away from the rest. The left lapel comes away as well, and lying the fabric across the table he casts the bear a quick, definitive glance. This would do nicely.

Some hours later, working by lamplight with heavy itching eyes and his desk a mess of stuffing and fabric scraps, Phineas holds up the fruits of his labour. With its lavish crimson body, black lapels, and neat gold trim and intricate stitching, it’s a miniature ringmaster’s jacket undeniably befitting a much beloved bear.

Pleased with his handiwork, Phineas holds his breath as he wiggles the bear into it, and can’t suppress the fond recollection of nights spent on the floor with Helen and Caroline dressing up their dolls.

Fastening the buttons down the jacket, he surveys the finished product with a critical eye, turning it over and over in his hands to ensure there wasn’t a single loose thread or wonky seam. The jacket completely covers the burn mark and the worn away patches on the arms and tummy that Phineas couldn’t repair, so it’s with great satisfaction he deems the bear good as new.

The chime of the clock striking one startles him, and Phineas sighs audibly as he retrieves his jacket from its hook. Hand slotting into his pocket, he stops at the touch of cool metal against his fingers, and withdraws the spare key to Phillip’s apartment. With a giddiness to his step, perhaps from exhaustion, Phineas retrieves the bear and flips off the lamp, dousing the office in darkness.

-

It’s a little before one-thirty when Phineas lets himself into Phillip’s apartment. Coat and hat tossed haphazardly onto the side table, he heads straight for Phillip’s bedroom. The bed is incredibly enticing; the bedding changed prior to Phillip’s departure and turned down in expectation of a guest. But as much as he longs to just drop face down into the pillows, he resists in favour of placing the bear in the middle of the bed.

“Should have given you a hat,” he mutters to himself. Mouth twitching with a smile, he wanders from the bedroom and towards the living room. Without bothering to remove his shoes, drops onto the couch.

He’s out in moments.

 

* * *

 

“...PT…PT.”

With another gentle shake Barnum jerks back to consciousness with a grunt, squinting up at the ceiling. It must have been at least late morning from the brightness. His attention, however, is quickly taken by-

“Phillip?” Phineas’ expression screws up, groggy with confusion. “You aren’t back until tomorrow.”

The younger ringmaster has no right to look so amused as he peers down at Phineas over the back of the couch, yet Phineas doesn’t feel so much as a niggle of irritation at his unanticipated wake-up call.

“Wrapped up business early, I got here just after eight.”

“eight?”

“Mhm. It looked like you had a late night so I let you sleep. It’s just gone eleven now, so we really should be getting to the circus. There’s a cup of coffee on the table for you.” He indicates to the steaming cup with a tilt of his chin. “Ready in fifteen minutes?” Phineas mumbles his agreement.

Phillip’s footsteps fade in the direction of the study as Phineas scrubs his hands over his face and sits up with a stretch, groaning in satisfaction as several clicking joints accompany the action. A blanket he hadn’t realised he’d been covered in gathers in his lap, and he plucks at it with a surprise that quickly melts into an already pronounced sense of endearment. It only grows when, upon planting his feet on the floor, he finds his shoes have been removed and set beside the table. Phineas blows out a breath and picks up the cup of coffee, fighting a smile as he takes a sip.

Within ten minutes Phineas has finished his coffee and slipped on his shoes. He’s just folding the blanket when Phillip reappears.

“Ready?” Phillip asks as he passes, handing Phineas’ his coat from the rack as the elder falls into step with an affirmative sound. He watches the younger man out the corner of his eye as he shrugs on his coat.

If Phillip had truly been home three hours, the man must have gone into his bedroom in that time. He must have seen the bear. But why would he not say anything if he had? Perhaps he really hadn’t seen. Or, an apprehensive part of Phineas’ mind supplied, Phillip didn’t know what to say about it, and that wasn’t necessarily a good thing. 

“How was your trip in the end?” Phineas enquiries as they step out the door.

Phillip laughs. “Let it be known that Harold Redgrove is an absolute ass.”

The door snaps shut behind them and locks with a click.

-

Their conversation carries easily on their walk to the circus, Phillip updating him on his investment seeking business in Boston, and Phineas likewise filling him in on the goings on at the circus. His expression twists when Phineas mentions the small rabble the night before.

“No one was hurt?”

Phineas shakes his head. “No, everyone either left out the back or stayed inside until the police came and sent them on their way.”

Phillip nods and slips his hands into his pockets as they walk. It’s only when the circus starts to creep into sight through the last few buildings before the docks that Phillip finally takes mercy on Phineas’ splintering nerves.

“So, I came across something unusual when I got home this morning. Besides my business partner rambling away to himself on my couch, that is.” He grins, his wickedly conversational tone laced with teasing.

Despite the sudden knot sitting somewhere between his kidneys, Phineas merely arches a brow with a careful expression of cursory interest. “And what might that have been?”

“A certain stuffed bear, which happens to mean an awful lot to me, has found a new lease of life and a rather distinguishing jacket while I was away…”   

If Phillip wanted to play coy, Phineas was eager to oblige.

“Now that is very peculiar.” Phineas returns, brow furrowing in a facade of contemplation.

“I have a few suspects.”

He steals a glance at the younger man from the corner of his eye, disgruntled when Phillip remains looking ahead, gait long and relaxed. “But I deduce it would have to be someone with at least some tutelage, perhaps an early apprenticeship, in tailoring. The stitching was seamless.” Phineas rolls his eyes even as Phillip’s lips twitch in a losing battle with a preening grin. “Did I mention the jacket was rather distinguishing?”

“You did,” Phineas confirms.

“And, of course, there’s the select few who actually know about the bear and the sentimental value it has…”

Phillip slows to a standstill and Phineas stops alongside him. They stare ahead without seeing the tent looming up into the sky mere feet in front of them.

“Sounds like a very narrow list…” Phineas says at last, breaking the tender silence that had settled between them. Phillip turns to face him and without a word reaches up and plucks at Phineas’ hair, presenting him with a tuft of white fluff pinched between his thumb and forefinger.

“Narrower than you might think.” His eyes glint with mischief as he grandly presents Phineas with the evidence that placed him as the indisputable culprit. Before Phineas can fumble a confession, or, perhaps, an apology, Phillip’s expression softens. He can now see in Phillip’s eyes the pastiche of emotions he’d been hiding behind a nonchalant posture and sly tone of voice.

Delight, wonder and veneration all blend and coruscate in a sea of appreciative blue, finally alleviating Phineas once and for all of his concern that he’d overstepped. _“Thank you,”_ Phillip says, sententious and sincere, and Phineas knows without a doubt as his heart jumps in his chest he’d made the right decision.

Sweeping back the canvas of the tent flap, he gestures Phillip inside and answers with a simple and equally sincere, “Welcome back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want an idea of how off track this got, Lettie wasn't even in the outline.


	7. "Are You Sure?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For all his confidence, even Phineas Taylor Barnum was bound to waver in a position of such emotional vulnerability.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have some wordcount whiplash, from 4.5k to 350!
> 
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Pairing:** Barlyle  
>  **Warnings:** n/a

The sensation of time stopping is so distinct it’s like Phillip has pressed a finger to the clock and prevented the hands of reality ticking. It’s a sensation not dissimilar to a rush of dread, but rather than an icy grip compressing his lungs, this feeling takes root in the pit of his stomach, bubbly and warm.

The dread is rather in Phineas’ eyes, but Phillip doesn’t notice until after he laughs, breathless and rhapsodic, and assures his partner “Yes, of course!”

Phineas’ mouth drops open. Brimming hazel eyes, like sunlight through a glass of whiskey, blink rapidly as if drawing him from a stupor, and to Phillip’s great bemusement he doesn’t make any attempt to move from his current position.

“Really? You’re sure?”

Phillip stares down at Phineas, fighting to keep his expression collected while amusement threatened to overwhelm him. “Are you really asking me that right now?” he counters smoothly.

His composure slips only slightly when Phineas jerks his chin up with a look of offence, his initial apprehension forgotten somewhat.

“I just wanted to make sure you were sure,” he protests with only an edge of defensiveness, but it does little to curb the insecurity that seemed to constantly simmer beneath a veneer of bravado. _“Are_ you sure?” he asks again.

That feeling from before, an indescribable cocktail of passion and endearment, rushes back with a vengeance as he regards the elder man. Phillip wonders if this is what Charity had been confronted with as well, a stunning, extravagant, nonsensical, magnificent dreamer and social renegade of a man as jittery as a schoolboy speaking to a pretty girl for the first time. He wonders if this is perhaps an improvement.

“Phineas,” he says with all the affection he can muster in that one word alone. “Put the ring on my finger and kiss me.”

Finally spurred into action, Phineas surges from his kneeling-position like a foal that’s recently found its feet and fumbles the silver band onto Phillip’s ring finger.

Hands cupping Phineas’ face, Phillip draws the ringmaster down into an eager and certain kiss.

 _I’m sure,_ it says.

 


	8. Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It would remain one of the universe's greatest mysteries to Phineas; how a man so severe, afflicting all those around him with the sharp burrowing shards of his detestable nature, could raise a man like Phillip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Pairing(s):** n/a  
>  **Warnings:** Minor character death (non-explicit)

It was almost picturesque. 

The morning sunlight, soft and hued with gold, fell through the bare branches of the willow trees bowed in mourning. The air was sharp and fresh at the back of his throat, the grass crisp and shimmering underfoot, and the headstone, a resplendent and solemn marble obelisk, glistened with a delicate layer of frost.

As Phineas stood over the grave, head bowed and thoughts wistfully idle, he observed the loose and freshly harrowed soil. It had been filled in little over a day ago, yet already a thick layer of frost blanketed the dirt, tendrils of clinquant rime reaching outwards as if the cold permeated from the grave itself. 

It wouldn’t surprise him, given who it contained.

A brief movement in his peripheral had Phineas shifting his focus to the man beside him. His heart clinched in sympathy as Phillip looked on in silence, expression indecipherable beyond the somber curve to his lips. He wished he never had to see Phillip subdued by something as wretched as grief, but it was a bitter inevitability as they stood shoulder to shoulder over the grave of Theodore Carlyle. 

While his heart unquestionably ached for Phillip’s loss, Phineas felt no shame for thinking so disrespectfully of the deceased in question. Theodore Carlyle had been a callous and intolerant man, possessing a heart so cold it couldn’t have been more than a shard of ice embedded in his chest. It reflected in the expectations he’d set for his only son, forming a sheer and insurmountable cliff face that Phillip had dutifully and relentlessly tried to conquer. The innumerous failures had weathered Phillip down in the end, resignation overcoming conviction until he was left with his spirit crushed and constitution marked by biting reprimands. Mr Carlyle’s parental legacy would be way Phillip’s posture couldn’t slip for a moment, be it in ease or distraction, without immediate correction, and the way his mouth snapped shut and all inclination to argue drained from him in the face of a raised voice.

Phillip pivoted abruptly, attention drawn away from the engraved epitaph he’d been reading over and over. Upon following, it took Phineas only a moment to recognise the newly widowed Helena Rose Carlyle. She stood on the path at the end of the row of graves, dressed in a black frock of paramatta silk and her face obscured by a crape weeping veil, a cambric handkerchief clutched too tightly in her hands. Between the veil and the distance, it was impossible to determine her expression, but for Phillip’s sake, Phineas hoped it differed from those of her companions whose faces boasted a blend of shock and scorn. Given they hadn’t been permitted to attend the funeral, Phineas may have understood the reaction to their presence at the grave now, but not when one was still a son, disowned or not, mourning the loss of his father and seeking closure.

Phineas imagined Mrs Carlyle had once been a woman of warmth, someone who would have reached for her son in a time of mutual loss and reclaimed the abandoned bridges between them. Yet a part of Theodore Carlyle lived on as a sliver of ice lodged in her breast, a cold and constant reminder to prick at her heart whenever it dared swell with too much hope. Too much joy. It was the only reason Phineas could fathom a mother turning away from the outstretched hand of her beseeching son and walking away. 

Phillip waited, watching his mother’s back as she left in step with her company, before finally returning his attention to the grave when Mrs Carlyle failed to spare her son even the briefest glance back. 

It would remain one of the universe's greatest mysteries to Phineas; how a man so severe, afflicting all those around him with the sharp burrowing shards of his detestable nature, could raise a man like Phillip. A compassionate soul yielding but ultimately impervious to the harsh realities of the world that sought to break him. Steadfast against the glacial cold that would have penetrated and ravaged a weaker man from the inside out. It was as if he kindled a small yet incredible warmth in his heart that even the bitterest onslaught couldn’t extinguish.

As if attesting to Phineas’ rumination, like a gossamer frost succumbing to the sun, a single tear rolled down Phillip’s cheek. 

It left Phineas in a state of awe. 

Phillip bore a nature so forgiving he could still shed a tear for the man who raised him with little more than harsh words and a heavy hand. Or, perhaps, it was the last vestiges of his father’s influence finally melting away once and for all.

Without a second thought, Phineas swept his arm around Phillip and clasped his shoulder with a reassuring pressure, affirming his comfort and support in his partner’s time of mourning. The smile Phillip gave him in return, grateful and genuine, made standing in the cold and paying respects to a man he despised bearable.

Phillip’s eyes, so much like his father’s, shimmered like pools; hurt, but thawing. Yet, in a way unmatched by any other, they regarded Phineas kindly, with an ardent and enduring warmth. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Lykie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedNGold/pseuds/RedNGold) forbid me killing Phillip or Phineas, so I had to make do ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	9. Face Your Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slowly, one after another, everyone’s attention turns away from the body until all eyes are fixed on the ringmaster, stood in the centre ring and seized by an unnatural stillness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Rating:** Teen  
> (For sensitive content)  
>  **Pairing(s):** Barlyle  
>  **Warnings:** Mildly descriptive violence and animal death.

The cane strikes with such ferocity that it cuts through the air with a hiss. It deadens the fleshy thump of contact, but the squeal of the rat is piercing in its agony. The creature is propelled several yards across the ring before it lands in a scattering of sand, rolled and dragged another few feet by momentum before it finally comes to a stop in a broken, crumpled heap.

The tent is silent.

Frozen where they stand, everyone looks on as the rodent shudders in its last throes of death before it finally succumbs.

It’s merely a rat, an unseemly and blighted vermin, yet the violent weight of its death blankets the circus in a troubled and sombre silence. Slowly, one after another, everyone’s attention turns away from the body until all eyes are fixed on the ringmaster, stood in the centre ring and seized by an unnatural stillness.

Despite being cast into shadow by the brim of his hat, Barnum’s eyes are noticeably wide; his irises overcome by dilated pupils and the whites of his eyes frightfully apparent. His expression remains caught in a suspended moment of distress, and clutched in his white-knuckled grip he holds his cane aloft, still extended in the tail of its swing.

No one had ever seen Barnum raise so much as a hand with violent intent, to man or beast, regardless of how undesirable they seemed. So to see such a needlessly brutal strike sends a tremor through everyone there to witness it, a grievous, horror-stricken feeling of their world tilting just a fraction off its axis.

The cane clatters to the floor and, with the jarring sound, Barnum comes back to himself. Without meeting anyone’s eye, he turns and dashes from the ring at just shy of a sprint, leaving an unsettled hush in his wake. It takes another moment before Phillip can expel the breath stifling his lungs.

“O’Malley, please deal with that.” His voice feels little more than a whisper, but conversely it seems to echo in his ears and the cavernous tent. “Everyone take five minutes then back to rehearsing.”

With orders given and the circus stirring back to life around him, Phillip stoops down to collect the cane. Despite the frankly ridiculous apprehension twitching in his fingers as he reaches for the unassuming prop, they curl around the polished wood with a sense of familiarity. It’s once again nothing more than a theatrical and otherwise benign accessory to Phineas’ showmanship.

Ignoring the weight of covert glances and forcing his stride to remain purposeful but not rushed, Phillip follows the fled ringmaster, his jaw clenched with worry.

 

* * *

 

He finds Phineas pacing in the office, strides long and direction erratic. Gingerly closing the door behind him, Phillip regards Phineas with an irrefutable concern and desire to reach out; but he resists the almost overwhelming pull, mindful of the agitation that had replaced the deathly stillness from the ring. Now, Phineas can’t seem to stop moving, his nostrils flaring with explosive breaths and hands roaming in a mindless, systematic rhythm. Wringing together, running through his hair, tugging sharply at the strands, rubbing across his face, then pulling at his coat sleeves until it started all over again.

“Phineas...” Again, Phillip’s seemingly quiet utterance sounds thunderous, making him pause. He wants to ask if he’s all right, but it would be a fatuous gesture with the ringmaster so clearly out of sorts. “What happened?”

Phineas moans into his hands, the sound low and distraught. “I killed it. I couldn’t- oh god, I didn’t even think…” Phineas doesn’t look at him, doesn’t give any acknowledgement he’s addressing Phillip at all.

Beset by a creeping unease, Phillip bridges the distance between them in a few steps and gently touches the man’s shoulder, feeling him tense beneath his hand. Phineas looks at him for the first time, eyes full of regret.

“I’m sorry. I never meant...is it still…?”

Hand still on Phineas’ shoulder, he guides the man down onto the couch and sets the cane aside.

“No, O’Malley is taking care of it. Everyone’s gone back to rehearsing,” Phillip reassures. “What happened?” he asks again, just as light and patient as the first time despite doubting he’ll receive an honest answer, if Phineas answered at all.

The ringmaster didn’t seem entirely present, staring at a spot on the floor with a blank focus.

“I hate rats.”

“That’s nothing to be ash-”

“No, Phillip. I **_hate_ ** rats. I can’t possibly make you understand how much...how much they-” his hands rub together in an agitated motion, his nails digging into his palm until Phillip twitches to intervene.

“I was just a boy when my father died. With no family or money, I was on the streets within days of the funeral. At first you think it will be the cold, the hunger, maybe even the loneliness that will be the worst.” Phineas shakes his head, expression twisting with dark reflections.

“It was the rats.”

Phillip stays quiet, but gently brings his palm to rest on Phineas’ knee. He breathes easier when Phineas’ hands, already marked and worn with years upon years of labour, fall limp between his knees.

“They were vicious,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Large and vicious. And when they had numbers… On freezing winter nights, when they were desperate and hungry, I’d see them corner cats. They’d _swarm;_ biting and crawling all over the poor creature until it finally stopped screaming.” Limbs drawn in tight and shoulders hunched, a shudder rolls through every muscle and touches every nerve.

“It gave me nightmares; horrific visions of them crawling all over me as I slept, not able to feel their teeth or their claws from the cold. I’d wake up crying; sometimes screaming when I discovered it wasn’t always just a nightmare. Some nights I had to beat them off me in a panic. Other nights I wondered if I would wake up at all, or if I'd just be left for the rats to pick clean.”

Phillip gazes at the ringmaster, mouth faintly parted in his horror. He’s quickly overcome by the realisation that it wasn’t just a hatred bred from a desperate rivalry for food and space, but a genuine, deeply ingrained _fear._ It was truly no wonder the man had lashed out as he had, the reaction simply a hardwired defense that had lain dormant for decades.

With his next unsteady exhale Phillip looks at the elder man, hesitating just a moment to take in the striking profile and illegible expression.

“I’m sorry. No one should have to go through that, especially all alone.”

The sudden rough warmth of Phineas’ hand settling on top of his own startles him, but Phillip recomposes himself just as easily as their fingers link together.

“I’m not alone now.” _Thanks to you._ The words come quietly, but steeped in sincerity and gratitude, making Phillip feel like his heart is physically expanding with affection within his chest. He brings his free hand to Phineas’ face and draws the man towards him for a long, earnest kiss to the hollow of his cheek. Then, with lips grazing across the bristle of afternoon shadow, his next kiss - shorter, sweeter, and just as wholehearted - falls to the corner of Phineas’ mouth.

“You don’t have to worry any more,” Phillip utters then, his lips so close he can still feel the rasp of Phineas’ stubble. Their noses softly bump. and a playful gleam comes to Phillip’s eye with the desire to see Phineas’ face alight with a smile once again.

“And I’m confident we can put together a rather enticing employment package for a couple of big, rat-catching alley cats.”

His light-hearted but no less genuine remark provokes an inelegant noise from the ringmaster, and with a subdued but familiarly ardent, impish, and _glorious_ impetus, Phineas receives Phillip’s next kiss with equal intensity. When they part, sharing several softer kisses between them, Phillip untangles Phineas’ fingers from his shirt and brings his hands back down to his lap.

“Take a bit more time here, and I’ll see you out in the ring when you’re ready.”

After running his fingers through Phineas’ hair in a fluid, soothing motion, and sharing one more meaningfully tender look, Phillip stands and leaves the room, the door clicking quietly behind him.

Once alone, Phineas’ deflates with a sharp exhale and stares at the cane left on the table. The dark polished wood hid any imperfections, but a black substance speckled the silver bust like an unsightly affliction. Drawing his handkerchief from his pocket, Phineas picks up the cane with shaking hands and lays it across his lap. Then, in disconsolate silence, he sets about wiping away the scarlet flecks of his transgression. 


End file.
